


Error: Missing language module

by the_ragnarok



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: First Time, Gags, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Relationship Negotiation, Temporary Muteness, Torture, nonrealistic recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:55:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harold has unconventional methods for coping with torture.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Error: Missing language module

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to talkingtothesky for beta <3

"There's two ways this could go," the man in front of Harold says. "There's the easy way, and there's the hard way. I'll let you think about it." He slaps his hip and gets up, locking the cell door behind him.

In fact, there are far more than two ways this could go. Harold does understand what the man is trying to do. Nathan taught him this, ages and ages ago. "When meeting prospective clients," he'd say, "you don't ask them what they want. You give them three or four options that _you_ want, and they won't even realize you've got them penned in." It was a very useful concept in user interface design, as well.

Alas, every option Harold has thought of to escape unharmed has proven ineffective. All right. What, then?

He doesn't know precisely what information his captors want, but he's gleaned enough to surmise that he doesn't want them to have it. Would rather, in fact, die than give it to them: but that's such a dramatic option, and irreversible, to boot. Harold will leave it as an absolute last recourse.

Tied as he is, dying would be hard enough to accomplish, anyway. He could do it by sufficiently infuriating his captor... maybe. Risky, that. He could bite his tongue and choke on the blood.

Come to think of it, he could bite his tongue sufficiently hard to render him incapable of speaking, rub his hands against their bonds, strain purposefully in hopes of causing nerve damage. The last makes Harold balk in a way that dying hasn't, a much more vivid - and terrifying - prospect.

Then the idea presents itself, and Harold relaxes. Oh. Yes, that would be quite easy: it would, in fact, almost be restful.

~~

Harold has far less control over his mind than he does over his computer systems. This has been a lasting source of consternation to him. Even so, he's not completely helpless with his mind.

What Harold has is a set of visualizations, which has proven exceedingly useful in the past. He has reasonable hopes they'll hold now, and if they don't, well, back to the other plan.

By the time the angry man comes back, Harold is finished deleting his human interaction module and compacting any pertinent information that might regard the Machine or their active numbers. It has left him with an incredible amount of memory space, and he was figuratively rubbing his hands in glee over it, rummaging through his drafts folder to find something innocuous and interesting to take up all that space.

The man says something in a soft tone. Harold blinks up at him. The man speaks again.

Again, this time angrily. He wants something. Harold has not the least notion what that might be.

The slap comes out of nowhere. Harold's eyes tear up. His face burns. This is painful and humiliating, and he would rather be somewhere else.

Thankfully, his mind offers plentiful escape.

Ah, yes: large scale interest based match-ups. A way to find two like minds across a given social networking site. Harold would be quite helpless to understand the contents of such a site, just now, but that's hardly relevant. He imagines data sets, boolean tag searches, Venn diagrams: someone who enjoys nearly, but not exactly, the same things the initial user does, who loves the rarely loved things the first user enjoys....

Another slap brings him briefly to reality. Harold squints through tears. His captor's face is distorted, and he's speaking very loudly. He slaps Harold again.

It's all very unpleasant and Harold doesn't see what he could do about it, so he resigns himself.

The match-up system would be a challenge to optimize, certainly, especially if he wanted to allow users to opt out. Still, considering filtering those posts for whom most tags were identical, allowing for placeholders and personal idiosyncrasies....

By the time his captor finally leaves, Harold has a tentative class design in his mind. He wishes he had a work station, or at least pen and paper, but never mind. He can remember this well enough until he can write it down.

~~

Harold checks in with reality periodically. He's not exactly sure why. So far the state is unchanging: he is in pain and discomfort, and there appears to be nothing he can do about it.

Soon, hunger and thirst are added to the list of disagreeable conditions. Then, an urgent need to visit the bathroom. Then, when the latter goes unattended, humiliation and the additional discomfort of cold, wet clothes.

His captor is angry, then enraged, then perplexed. He escalates the physical violence from striking Harold to electrocuting him. Harold checks out for a long time after that, diving into the perfect world where everything is logical and nothing hurts.

He comes back to see his captor studying him. The man speaks, then takes out a sharp-looking knife.

There's something horrifyingly intimate to the way Harold's clothes are being cut off him. The outfit was lovely before it was ruined, and Harold mourns it. The man isn't too careful with the blade, nicking Harold's skin here and there. Small hurts, but the knowledge of them makes Harold frantic, gets him babbling.

Truly babbling: he has no idea what he's saying, and neither does the man cutting his clothes off. He moves back with a small frown, and speaks. Harold keeps babbling, watches the man's expression as it shifts back into bewilderment, and thence to rage.

He cuts Harold along his existing scars, and Harold screams. He branches away, making new marks, and Harold gets louder. His heart is beating very fast, and the pain is really the least of it. It's terrifying, for reasons Harold can't explain. He doesn't know where the knife will go next. Blood wells up and runs down his skin.

Harold just manages to turn his face away before vomiting. It's mostly bile, burning his mouth.

His captor looks him in the eyes and speaks softly. Harold would agree to whatever he's saying, anything to make this stop, but he can't. He doesn't understand a word.

~~

He gets a laptop put in front of him, which is very kind.

It's less kind when his captor snatches it out of Harold's hands when he's barely a thousand lines of code in. That's really quite rude.

Harold starts shaking as soon as he sees the knife. No. No. He can't take any more, he _can't_.

It bites into his flesh, and once more, Harold finds out he can. He doesn't have to like it, it might feel like he's going to die any minute of sheer terror, but those are his options: endure or die, and Harold has done the first often enough to know it's almost always possible.

He'll pull through. Or else he'll die. It doesn't matter, really. He can't muster the focus to go back where his code lives, so he cries. The salt water stings.

~~

His captor is speaking gently again. Harold shakes. He couldn't rebuild his interaction module right now if he tried. He wants to try, wants to appease this man, keep him from hurting Harold again, but it's as beyond him as sprouting wings and flying.

The man stops, and there is a loud noise, and something warm on Harold's face.

Then there are hands on him. Harold flinches, useless as he knows the gesture is, but then someone is speaking, and Harold finally opens his eyes.

He knows that voice, that dear face: John is here. Harold relaxes, quiets the whimpering noises that want to escape him. John would be distressed, and there's no need.

John's handling of him, gentle as it is, still hurts. John is spattered in red all over. Some of it must be from Harold.

None of it matters. John has him. Everything will be all right. Harold slides back into his little project with a sigh of relief.

~~

John takes him back to the library. He tends Harold's wounds and cleans him, helps him put on fresh clothes. When Harold eyes his work station with longing, John settles him there, leaving a steaming mug of tea at his side. Harold manages a distracted grateful smile before diving back into typing up the code he's been imagining.

Later, he stretches, yawning. The burning in his eyes is fatigue. He laboriously gets up from his chair, startled at the hand on his elbow, steadying him.

John looks at him wordlessly. Harold smiles and accepts his assistance. John seems gratified, leading Harold to the small sleeping space he keeps in the back of the library, even helping Harold put on his sleeping clothes. He hangs Harold's suit neatly, knowing exactly where it goes.

Then John speaks. It's a question: that much, Harold can tell. It matters a lot to John what he answers.

Harold is silent, trying his best to figure an appropriate response, and John's face falls for just a moment before settling into a blank mask.

Oh, no. That won't do at all. Harold can't manage words, but he can reach out, make a small, inquiring sound right back at John.

John laughs shakily. He says something and starts moving away.

Harold compresses his mouth. Oh, this is _irritating_. He almost forgot why he compiled his interaction module to begin with: human interactions were so complex, often so tedious. He'd forgotten how helpless he could feel, without them.

On a whim, he snags the hem of John's pants. John could easily get out of his grip, but he doesn't seem to want to. He speaks softly, hope lighting up his eyes.

Harold likes that. He insists, pulling John closer: and suddenly John is _on_ him, kissing Harold's mouth ardently.

Well. He wasn't expecting this, but it's hardly unpleasant. Harold can't pretend he never imagined this. He brings his hands tentatively to John's nape, gently touching him.

John melts into the contact. His hand runs down Harold's body, cleverly skating all the places where he's hurt, coming to rest on his slowly hardening cock.

Oh, that's good. Harold likes this. He thrusts his hips up: he doesn't have much of a range of motion, but John gets the idea, rubbing him more firmly. Harold lets his head hang back, panting.

John asks him something: Harold doesn't know what, but he knows whatever it is, his answer is positive. He nods, and John moves down, down, lowers Harold's sleep pants and takes his dick out and into his hot, beautiful mouth.

Now Harold can whimper, and John isn't upset by it at all.

He climaxes quickly. He hasn't been touched like this in a very long time, and John is both enthusiastic and skilled. He doesn't spill a drop, swallowing it all, coming up to kiss Harold.

The idea of reciprocation presents itself to Harold. He reaches for John's pants only to find them copiously wet, reaches inside to find John's member soft and spent.

John speaks. Harold kisses him and curls up around him. That seems to settle both of them, and Harold falls asleep in a matter of minutes.

~~

He wakes up because his phone is ringing.

Harold stares at it, on the verge of panic, until John plucks it from his nerveless hands. As John answers, Harold gets dressed and moves towards his work station.

He has his work files open when John comes up behind him and speaks.

Harold blinks at the screen. John made sounds, which are words, which mean something. The mapping existed inside Harold's mind, and now that he's out of danger, he should rebuild it.

But he's not done with his project, and hasn't he managed just fine so far without?

Harold opens a text file. He types a question mark, and hands his keyboard to John, expectant.

John speaks. Harold doesn't respond. John asks a question. Harold nudges the keyboard at him.

Finally, John types something. It's just three words, and Harold recognizes "OK?", but he can't parse the rest. He shakes his head.

John tries again, typing, "Read? Write?"

Harold nods, sinking into his chair with the intensity of his relief.

"Talk?" John types. Harold shakes his head.

John looks thoughtful. Then he writes, "Admin state?"

That makes Harold smile, helplessly: that John tries to speak Harold's language, that he cares, is indescribably sweet. He types, "OK," in response. On a whim, he adds, "Enable log?"

John types "YES," which is endearingly redundant. Then he writes, "SSN=229334543. info?"

This, Harold can do. Within minutes he has a name and a picture for John. John makes further inquiries, some of which Harold finds hard to decipher, but they manage.

Halfway through, Harold becomes frustrated with having to share his keyboard. He moves their communication to an app on John's phone, connecting it with a text-to-speech software and linking it to John's earpiece. An additional speech-to-text module is there in case John needs help while his hands aren't free.

~~

Virtually all Harold found out about the number evaporates from his mind as soon as John walks out the door. Simple enough to reason why: his long-term storage, so to speak, is all caught up in the project.

Harold really should compile these missing modules. At the same time... well, he doesn't want to.

People. Nondeterministic automata at best: in the usual case, chaotic systems, each a host unto itself. Harold _should_ reload his communication modules, yes, but would it be so wrong if he just finished his project first? His lovely, rational project.

Software never hurt others in blind retaliation and hurt itself along the way. It struck Harold that for over a decade, he'd neglected theoretical work in favor of tending to the wounds humans struck at one another while mindlessly flailing. He wonders why he bothered.

Across the earpiece, he hears gunshots.

Harold stiffens. Oh, no, if John is hurt--

But John speaks, and soon after the message is transcribed: _OK_. John is alright. Harold exhales, abruptly ashamed of himself. John is risking his _life_. Harold can certainly return himself to full functionality to keep him safer.

John speaks again. On Harold's screen, the word, _Done_ appears, followed by others he has difficulty parsing. The small, blinking dot of the GPS tracker he has on John's phone blinks, moving away from the scene of the shooting and closer to the library.

Well. If John is heading for the safety of home, surely he won't begrudge Harold a few more hours of work.

~~

John brings him dinner, which is extremely thoughtful of him and also delicious. He seems content to lounge on the sofa, reading as Harold works. Their current inability to communicate verbally hardly seems like an issue.

It's getting late. Harold looks at the screen, blinks his burning eyes, and starts in the direction of his sleeping area.

John speaks. It sounds friendly, the content of the sentence merely a shape to hold the intention of affection. Harold smiles at him. John asks a question.

Harold considers going to his computer to see whether he can understand or answer any of what John just asked, but it seems like too much work at the moment. He gives John a little shrug and heads off to bed.

He's stopped by John's voice, still questioning and now gone sharp. Harold turns and frowns at him. John seems very upset all of a sudden. He asks another question. When Harold still can't answer him, John's face blanks. He gets to his feet and leaves.

For a few minutes, Harold stands there, blinking stupidly at the empty space where John was.

No use in delaying it further. Harold closes his eyes and mentally sweeps his work desk clean.

It's a struggle to make himself focus. _Start small_ , Harold thinks. He opens the text file he used to communicate with John earlier, runs it through the text-to-speech software. It takes him a few moments to remember how to match sound with words. Then he moves on to meaning.

That's useless, though. He doesn't need a vocabulary lesson. Harold needs to understand the system, not the syntax of the language it's written in.

The system is people: humanity. It comes back to Harold in a series of memories, insights. Most of them have Nathan speaking. Some of them have his father, or Grace.

 _Everyone is doing the best they can._ That one is Grace. _At the same time, everyone is making choices, for which they are held accountable._ Harold thinks this one might be his own, or he read it somewhere. _People want to belong more than they want food or shelter, and they want the last two a lot._ Nathan, and as well as: _when you're angry, you want to hit back: so does everybody, and it's a lot more powerful if you reach out instead. And that's how we make the world better._

Niggling at the corners of his mind are small inaccuracies in the model. Harold dismisses them. Of course compassion is not _always_ the correct response in every case, but for him, it is in nearly any case. He is a man in possession of a terrifying amount of power. If he will not be compassionate, who will?

The knowledge settles on Harold like a heavy mantle. He sighs under its weight. Then he calls John. "Mr. Reese? Come back. We need to talk."

~~

Odd, realizing how much of Harold's perception is informed by his understanding of how people work. He'd forgotten much of what it felt like to be in the dark about people's motives, sensing the emotions they conveyed but clueless to their cause.

Now, he sees John standing stock still, and yet the feeling he gets is that John wants to cringe like a whipped dog.

It makes Harold angry, which reminds him to be gentle. "John. What's wrong?"

John's posture is stiff. "Nothing," he says. "Glad to see you're back to your old self." He seems anything but.

Harold closes his eyes, his head tipping back very slightly against the back of his chair. He can't remember what John said, prior to leaving. Verbal ability is very important in memory retention: who taught him that?

Never mind. Harold has recordings, if he must check. Better yet, he has John. "Before you left," he says. "You asked me something. What was it?"

A muscle ticks in John's jaw. "It's not important."

Clearly, it _is_ , and before Harold can stop himself he says, "Why are you lying to me?" voice cracking in his frustration.

John gives him a wide-eyed look.

"It was important." Harold's breathing is faster than he'd like. "It was, or you wouldn't." His hands open and close, helplessly, grasping for words that elude him in his excited state, his still-precarious understanding dancing out of reach. "Wouldn't run away."

"Harold," John says. His voice has gone concerned, of all things, and he's closed the distance between them, laying a hand on Harold's shoulder. Harold abruptly realizes that the ache in his back has transformed into stabbing pain. He consciously relaxes, breathing in and out. John watches his face with badly concealed anxiety.

His kindness humbles Harold, taking the air out of his indignance. "I'm sorry," he says, small and inadequate. "I forgot how hard this is." He is doing this badly, he realizes, connections still reforming themselves in his mind. He only realizes after the fact that he ought not have said that. John, after all, gets shot at on a near daily basis and thinks nothing of it. He has endured torture much worse than Harold's recent experiences. Complaining to John is the height of insensitivity.

John regards him with a small frown. He doesn't appear angry, as he justifiably might be at Harold's self-pity. "How hard what is?"

Harold makes a helpless little gesture. "This," he says. "Talking. People."

John makes a noise that might be called a laugh. "Harold, you're better at people than I am. You're better at them than anyone I know."

That's very sweet of John to say, but it hardly contradicts what Harold said. He patiently looks at John and waits for him to understand this. When John says nothing in return, only looking perplexed, Harold finally says, "The two statements are not mutually exclusive."

John processes this. "Harold," he says, at length, voice strained. "What the fuck did these assholes _do_ to you?"

Harold looks at him for a moment until understanding dawns. "They didn't. It was," he consciously breathes, tries to keep calm as he searches for the right word. "Autosuggestion. I made myself forget."

"Forget," John says slowly. "About... speech? Human interaction?"

"Yes," Harold says, quick and grateful. "Yes. It's-- room." His hands jerk, his mouth compresses. "Memory space, they take up... rather a lot of it," he concludes with a rueful smile.

Even with his functions somewhat restored, Harold can't read John's current expression at all. "Harold," he says. "How much do you remember of last night?"

The code he wrote, but he doubts John means that. "You saved me," he says. "Took care of me. We had sex." He takes another look at John's face and adds, "It was very good," almost certain it's the wrong thing to say but not sure for what reason.

John inhales sharply. When he speaks, his voice is almost a whisper. "You must have known I was interested, but you never said anything. Why?"

"Too much work," Harold says, immediately wishing he could recall the words. He takes John's hand before he can turn away, before John even manages to smooth away the hurt look on his face. "No! No. Listen." He emphasizes the word, squeezes John's hand.

John's squeezes back.

It takes Harold another moment to gather his thoughts into words. "I want you to be happy. You deserve to be happy." He adds his free hand to the one holding John's, willing him to stay put. "But to do that, I'd have to. To." He grits his teeth. He could do this, once, find words with ease. Logically he knows it's only a question of differently allocated system resources, but it is so very annoying to experience. "I can solve problems. Very difficult ones. But that takes--"

"Room," John quietly supplies. "Memory space."

Harold relaxes. "Just so."

"And making me happy would be..." John licks his lips. "A difficult problem."

"You deserve to be happy," Harold repeats, but it's a plea now: for John to understand, to help him make that happen. "And I don't have the room."

"Because it's taken up with the numbers?" John asks. "And everything you need to work them, including communication skills."

At that, Harold nods so enthusiastically that his neck hurts.

John puts a gentle, restraining hand on his jaw. "Okay." He moves closer, close enough that his breath is warm on Harold's face when John says his name, says, "What if it made me happy to take care of you?"

Harold blinks at him. "It would?"

John's smile is a wobbly, small thing, but to his astonishment Harold thinks it's sincere. "It really would."

~~

With John's hand on the small of his back, Harold goes outside. They get in John's car, drive to John's apartment. John has one hand on Harold's thigh throughout the drive. Normally Harold would be annoyed at this, feeling like he's being coddled, but he's not certain which of them John is trying to reassure. He stays quiet.

Not speaking is its own relief. Harold does have a moment of doubt when they're in John's apartment, with John taking his jacket. "Wait."

John looks at him, attentive.

Harold makes a small, frustrated gesture. "I'm afraid I'll hurt you."

For a mercy, John doesn't bother pretending Harold is talking of physical pain, either. "I'll take care of myself," he says. Harold scowls, but before he can find words John has a hand on his cheek. "I will," he says, emphasizing the last word. "I won't do, or let you do, anything that makes me unhappy. I promise. Okay?"

With reluctance, Harold nods.

John slips Harold's tie off with a practiced grace that makes him wonder about all the times John had trouble knotting his ties. "I have an idea," John says, brandishing the tie at Harold. "You like not talking, right? Saves room."

Harold nods and opens his mouth, lets John slide the silk between his lips. John secures it in place. Not tight, and hardly offering any real obstacle to speech if Harold wanted to talk, but it's a good reminder that he doesn't have to. John has the situation well in hand, and all Harold has to do is trust him.

To Harold's small surprise, that's not hard at all.

John's eyes darken as he traces his thumb over Harold's lower lip. Harold shudders, helpless. It's been a very long time since he's been touched like this. "Don't worry," John says, voice low. "I'll make it good for you."

On this, Harold had no doubts, but it's nice to be assured even so.

John takes off the rest of Harold's clothes, then his own. Harold watches him, making no attempt to hide his arousal or his curiosity. John moves beautifully, like a dance, and Harold wants to touch him.

He doesn't, though, waiting for John to lead him to bed. John lays him down and carefully lies on top of Harold, supporting most of his own weight on his hands. He kisses Harold's lips gently, then moves down his jaw to his throat while Harold lies trembling under him.

If Harold isn't careful he'll start wondering what John is getting out of this, the contrast of John's loveliness with Harold's own form, old, broken, plain even when he was whole--

"Don't think," John whispers. "Let yourself feel."

John can be persuasive when he wants to be, and Harold lets himself succumb, allows himself to think of nothing but John's hands, John's mouth, tracing lines of fire on Harold's skin.

Like last time, John takes him in his mouth, and like last time, Harold is helpless to resist him. John keeps him from thrusting, and Harold reads in the act both domination and care, lest Harold hurt himself by accident. It's that realization as much as the wet heat of John's mouth that makes Harold come.

Before he even catches his breath, he's pulling at John's shoulders, eager to participate in John's own climax this time. John obliges him, sliding up and pushing his cock into Harold's hand, which curls around it without Harold's own volition.

"Like this," John says, and the grittiness of his voice sends a pang of residual arousal through Harold, a little thrill of realization: _He took me into his throat, he let me use his mouth._ John coaxes Harold's hand to move slower, a looser grip than Harold prefers. John inhales sharply at an experimental twist of Harold's wrist, hums contentedly when Harold takes his balls in his free hand.

The makeshift gag slides loose as Harold is gaining confidence, touching John unreserved, and then John kisses him ferociously, groaning into Harold's mouth as he spurts between their bodies.

Harold wipes one hand on the sheets and tentatively pets John's back. John leans into the contact, which makes Harold bolder. He's not sure who initiates the closer embrace, but he falls asleep fully touching John, reveling in the warm space they make together.

~~

Morning finds Harold clean and alone, with a still-steaming mug of tea and a note waiting for him on the dresser. The note reads, _Number came in the night. I'm on it. J_

It makes Harold smile. He gets dressed and returns to the library, where he checks in with John, who emphatically tells Harold that he's doing fine and not to worry.

Harold's code editor is still open, displaying the project he started in captivity. He still has some of the class structure in memory, if he rummages, so he puts that down, and everything that comes up while he's remembering: some parts which he already planned and forgot, others popping up organically as he works.

When John sails into the library, his good cheer evidence that he successfully accomplished today's work, Harold is approaching a good place to stop. He holds his hand up and John gives him space, lounging on the couch with a book.

Finally, Harold hits _save_ and turns around. "I take it today went well?"

"Very well," John says. "How are you?" There's a bit of tension under the words, although well-concealed.

"I'm also very well," Harold says, with a small smile. "I'm still experiencing some difficulties, but I predict they," he loses the thread and has to recapture it, "that I will be better soon."

"Glad to hear that." John gets up, plants a kiss on the top of Harold's head, and puts his book back in the stacks, as though to hide the affectionate act.

It makes Harold want to be brave. "John, I've been thinking."

He doesn't look up from the books, although any notion that he isn't listening would be belied by the sudden stiffness to his posture. "Yeah?"

Harold has been thinking all morning of a good way to put this. The words came to him between one code segment and another, considering the most elegant design. "There's an approach to programming," he says, "that's called object-oriented. In it, each component is fully in charge of its own actions and data, which no other component may access. It's considered a good design approach."

John keeps quiet. Harold watches him closely as he continues.

"In some areas, however, it's not a workable approach. In the very core of an operating system, for example, when every nanosecond counts, an action must be done where it's quickest and simplest. There is little division between components, if any. People," Harold hesitates, "people aren't quite like either of those."

That gets John to look at him. "Oh?"

"People," Harold carries on, "aren't discrete objects, but they aren't the commingled mess of a system core. Tempting though either view is." He takes a breath. "There is... a kind of shortcut, in some programming languages. A hack, in a way, or a feature: defining a component as _friend_ , and the common joke is that friends get to touch your private parts, private also being--"

"I get it," John says. His long legs eat up the distance until he's standing right next to Harold, holding his hand. "No man is an island."

Harold brings John's hand up to his mouth and kisses it. "Yes," he says, grateful beyond measure for John's understanding. For _John_. "And-- it appears that, sometimes, I might have more room than anticipated."

John crouches, his free hand on Harold's armrest. "That's good to know." He leans in for a deep, messy kiss and retreats, grinning. "Don't overwork yourself, Harold. Not on my account."

Harold squirms. "We really do need to discuss your own self-care, or the lack thereof."

John's smile softens. He nuzzles Harold's throat. "How about we try that thing where I'm responsible for my own, how'd you call it, actions and data?"

"The function still needs to be called," Harold says, badly suppressing his own answering smile. He cups John's face in one hand, shivering when John turns to kiss Harold's wrist. "Be happy," he tells John, probably injecting too much earnestness for something that John doubtlessly only intended as play.

John leans his forehead against Harold's and softly says, "Mission accomplished," as he moves in for more kisses.


End file.
